


Bootleggers and Broomsticks

by lucky_spike



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen, Midnight Crew - Freeform, Multi, Terrible Harry Potter crossovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The setting is a place called HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY, and four students are about to embark on a MARVELOUS JOURNEY through the DANGEROUS WATERS OF ADOLESCENCE, as well as THE LESS DANGEROUS WATERS OF ORGANIZED CRIME. They are also ostensibly GOING TO LEARN MAGIC.</p><p>And, quite possibly, there will be a great deal of KISSING ON THE FACE.</p><p>(In which the Midnight Crew goes to Hogwarts, Spike writes unencumbered by a plot, and promotes all the ships.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Everyone noticed the kid in the line with the eyepatch. Not only was the eyepatch black and glossy under the oversized brim of his hat, out of place in a lineup of fresh-faced eleven year-old first-years, but he’s about a head shorter than anybody else, except for one other kid. People whispered, and in the line, Jack noticed.

“Fuck this place,” he snarled.

“Just ignore them,” the Prefect minding the line scolded him. “And don’t swear; you’ll be losing points before you’re even sorted.”

“Fuck you.”

“Shoosh.”

Jack glowered under his stupid hat, and tried to ignore the ripple of whispering through the hall. He did, however, spare a snarl to the bitch in the front of the Ravenclaw table - dark-skinned, slim, with pointed features and the slightest hint of boobs at the tender age of thirteen - and frowned even more deeply when she just smiled at him.

“I told him,” she told the heavy boy in Gryffindor colors, just across the aisle from her, “not to run with scissors. He lasted five minutes.”

Jack scowled deeper and looked away; bitch shouldn’t have been babysitting anyway. Not like he needed babysitting. He’d never have thought of running around with the fucking scissors if she hadn’t suggested it first.

Instead he looked ahead, to the three boys he met on the train: new students, too. One tall and slim, with a hook nose, a name so old it sounded dusty, and purer blood than anybody here, one taller and heavy, with a trunk full of dime-store romance novels, and one kid that was blessedly shorter than Jack, with a trunk full of frog and a head full of empty. They weren’t bad guys, really, and if not for the damn alphabet Jack would happily be standing by them, out of a fast-forged sense of defensive camaraderie.

As it was, he was stuck back here, getting fucking stared at and snickered at by his stupid fucking bitch neighbor and her friends. Fuck her.

“Pssst. Jack. Pssst. Hey! Jack!”

Oh, right, and that asshole. Jack twisted a little, just enough to glare at the blond-haired dork grinning broadly at him. “The hell do you want?” The Prefect thumped him on the shoulder. “Ow!”

“Watch your language, kid!”

The blonde kid just kept grinning, from Prefect back to Jack. “Just wanted to wish you good luck. Bet you’ll be Slytherin!”

Jack turned around without answering, disgusted. Fuck him, of course he’d be a Slytherin. The Noirs had always been Slytherins, or Ravenclaws once or twice. Generations of Slytherin Noirs, flanked by Slytherin Droogs, had migrated through Hogwarts’ hallowed halls. It wasn’t even a fucking question which house he’d end up in.

The hat finished its song, and one by one the first years got called to the stool, shedding their own hats for the ratty old talking one. The first guy he knew - the big, tall one, Boxcars - sat on the stool almost apologetically. Moments later, the hat announced ‘Hufflepuff!’ Sucks, Jack thought; stuck in a house of wet-blanket touchy-feelies. That guy could’a been cool. Oh well.

The second guy he knew was the short little one, who trotted up to the stool and plopped down, grinning broadly and squeezing his eyes shut. Nice enough, Jack supposed, but a little soft in the head. Probably in Hufflepuff with Boxca - ‘Slytherin!’ shouted the hat. Jack blinked, jaw going slack, his mouth not quite falling open. Slytherin? Really? Huh. Maybe the guy had hidden depths, Jack thought. Couldn’t hurt to find out, anyway.

Diamonds Droog - the latest model in the rabbit-like line of Droogs - was next to the stool, sitting primly, making sure his robe wasn’t creased as he sat down, like some kind of dame. In spite of that, Jack crossed his arms and smirked, satisfied, when the hat barely grazed Droog’s head before shouting ‘Slytherin!’. Another Slytherin legacy for the books, Jack thought. Noir and Droog, just like always.

There were a few kids between ‘Dr’ and ‘No’, and Jack fidgeted the whole time, right foot to left foot, arms folded, then hands in his pockets, then swinging a little at his sides. Get this show on the road, that was what needed to happen. The longer he stood up here the longer he was away from the rest of the Slytherin table. And, maybe more importantly, the longer the rest of the other kids could stare at him.

When the hat finally got to him, he jumped up on the stool, feet swinging, and managed to keep the fidgeting to a minimum as McGonagall squashed the hat onto his head, the brim of the thing sliding down, over his eye, and coming to rest on the pointed tip of his nose.

“Alright, you stupid piece of headwear, I think we all know which way this is going,” he thought, furiously, like his mother had told him to.

“Do we?” the hat, if anything, sounded amused, its dusty voice echoing through his skull. “Where do you think this is going, Jack Noir?”

Jack rolled his eye. “Slytherin.”

“You think? Certainly, there are Slytherin traits. But hmm give me a moment. Let’s see, not particularly cunning, but bright enough when you set your mind to something, energetic, oh my yes, ambitious, yes, very, and you do come from a long line of Slytherins.”

“Right, so let’s just hurry this the fuck along, alright?”

“Such language. Hm. But at the same time, tenacious and brave, stubborn, willing to fight for what you think is right, and who you think is your friend … yes, very loyal to your friends, especially that Droog boy.”

Jack scowled. “I guess I could live with Ravenclaw,” he thought. “I guess.”

“Oh, no my boy, I don’t think Ravenclaw is a very good fit for you at all. No, much more appropriate, I think, to go with -“

“Slytherin, of co -“

“Hufflepuff!”

There was a smattering of applause through the great hall, mostly from the Hufflepuff table, but all Jack could hear was a curious silence, almost like a shockwave had struck him and left his ears ringing. His mouth was still open when McGonagall gently lifted the hat off his heat and shoved his own back on.

“Hufflepuff?” he asked, staring blindly out across the sea of students.

McGonagall shoved him gently in the middle of his back. “That’s what the hat said, Mr. Noir. Go to your table.”

“ _Hufflepuff_?” In a snap, he’d whirled on the stool and lunged for the hat. The long-suffering Prefect sighed, and grabbed the back of his robe, bodily lifting him up. “Give me the fucking hat; it’s wrong! I can’t be Hufflepuff, it meant to say Slytherin, I’m not - !”

“Your _table_ , Mr. Noir,” McGonagall coughed, severely. “And ten points from your house, which is _Hufflepuff_.”

“I’m not a fucking Hufflepuff!” he insisted, but nevertheless the Prefect dropped him off the stage, and used the toe of his shoe to shove him Hufflepuff-ward. The polite applause that had accompanied the walk of every new student was absent though, replaced by awkward, shocked silence as Jack sulked to an empty seat. Droog watched him, mostly blank but clearly a little out of sorts, and opened his mouth to say something as Jack walked by.

“Shut up,” Jack snapped at him, before dropping into an empty seat, next to the big kid he’d met on the train. On the stage at the front, a new student sat down and the hat was placed on her head, but Jack wasn’t paying attention, instead staring at his tie, already magicked to yellow and black. Not green and silver. Huffle fucking puff.

“Well thanks to cyclops here we’re already in the hole,” a girl sneered, from across the table. Jack looked up sharply. “What’re you gonna say, short-stuff?”

“Fuck you!” Jack snarled, grabbing a knife off the table and plunging it into the wood between her index and middle fingers in one practiced, smooth motion.

“Mr. Noir!” McGonagall shouted shrilly, as the girl on the stool went stiff under the hat. “Sit down!”

The big kid put a hand on Jack’s shoulder, pushing gently as Jack eased himself back into his seat. “Come on, Jack, calm down. It’s not all bad,” he murmured.

“Not all … how am I going to explain this?” he hissed. “My whole family is Slytherin, or maybe Ravenclaw, maybe! The whole family! Hell, I could have fucking made do with Gryffindor! But fucking Hufflepuff? Fuck this house!”

The rest of the students glared. “Shut up,” the big kid advised him, “before someone hits you.”

Jack groaned, and let his head fall forward onto the table, his vision filled with black and yellow. “Hufflepuff,” he mumbled. “Fucking Hufflepuff.”

“Problem Sleuth!” McGonagall called on stage. Jack looked up, weary, as the stupid blonde kid trotted forward and sat down to be sorted. “Stupid kid’s gonna end up here too, I know it,” he mumbled, glum. “He’s dumb enough.”

“Ravenclaw!”

Jack’s head clunked back down onto the table, the first year groaning loudly. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

“We’re not all dumb,” one of the older students reminded him, glancing warily to the knife still stuck in the table. “Hufflepuffs an actually be pretty great. We’re loyal, and determined, and … friendly.”

The big kid patted him on the shoulder. “It’ll be alright,” he murmured. “Bet you’ll even get to liking it, eventually.” He paused. “An’ I know you never asked, but my name’s Boxcars, by the way. First name Hearts.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s great,” Jack mumbled. His head still buried in the crook of his elbow, he reached his free hand across the table and wrenched the knife free. “Let’s just get to the part where I fucking eat. They got booze in this place?”

Boxcars’ face twists up, alarmed and confused. “We’re eleven,” he points out.

“… Fuck this place.”


	2. Chapter 2

Your name is HEARTS BOXCARS, and you are ELEVEN YEARS OLD. Today is September 1, and it is the day you have started school at HOGWARTS, a school for wizards, which you have on good authority is not just a FIGMENT OF YOUR IMAGINATION. Which is good, because you were sort of worried you’d accidentally drank some drain cleaner again, despite your mother’s painstakingly-applied MR. YUCK STICKERS.

You have been sorted into the house called HUFFLEPUFF, along with three other boys. You do not mind being in HUFFLEPUFF, and in fact aren’t even really sure what that means, other than that you are loyal and true. You think that sounds PRETTY COOL, ACTUALLY. You are, however, KIND OF WORRIED about one of your new housemates, JACK NOIR, because whatever your feelings on Hufflepuff might be, he seems convinced it’s the end of his natural life.

“You could smuggle me in or somethin’, right?” he says hopefully to another of your new friends, DIAMONDS DROOG, who apparently had the good fortune to be sorted into SLYTHERIN. “Or tell me the password. I don’t belong in Hufflepuff, Droog, you know I don’t, so maybe if you just like … make me an honorary Slytherin -“

Droog looks almost pityingly at Jack. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Come on, Droog, this isn’t -“

Droog tries for an encouraging smile, but you reflect that Droog’s face is not really cut out for that particular expression. Still, the thought’s nice. “You’ll be fine, Jack. Come on I mean … Hufflepuff’s not all bad. There’s some good wizards from Hufflepuff!” He nudges Jack, whispering the names of, you assume, notable magicians, as the Slytherin and Hufflepuff Prefects brief their houses on staying close, and watching out for moving staircases. You’re torn between both conversations, because what the Prefect’s saying is important, but what Jack and Droog are talking about might have implications for how well you sleep later in the night.

“Yeah, but all the notable Noirs have been Slytherins!” Jack hisses. “The fucking hat made a mistake, Droog, I’m telling you, and -“

“Hufflepuffs, follow me!” the Prefect calls, before leading your group from the great hall and into the main entrance. Jack grudgingly follows, shooting Droog one last look of despair before he turns his back to the other boy, and falls into step in your shadow.

“You’re really torn up about bein’ in this house, aren’t you?” you ask, as the pack of you weave through corridors. You probably should be paying better attention, but Jack seems like he could use some moral support. Plus, you gotta admit you like the kid, as much of a whiner as he is.

He crosses his arms. “A mud - uh, Muggle-born wouldn’t understand,” he stammers. “Basically, my whole family is magic, and for fucking eons we’ve been Slytherins. Every time! Okay, maybe there were one or two Ravenclaws in there, but mostly green and silver all the way.” He sneers. “How many Hufflepuffs have there been?” he asks, before thrusting a single finger into your face. “One! Jack fucking Noir, age eleven.”

You frown, doubtful. “Okay, so there’s tradition, I guess but … well, tradition’s not everything,” you point out. “I’m the only wizard in my family.” You think about nudging him with your elbow, but think better of it when you catch sight of his expression, made all the more terrifying for the eyepatch. “Anyway, how much can your house matter? It’s just organization.”

He looks over to you, and he gives you this look like he’s wondering if he’s ever met someone stupider than you are. You snap your trap shut, and look away, suddenly embarrassed.

“Just organization?” he hisses. “Just goddamn organization? Did you not even fucking listen to the hat? That fucking hat knows our future, Boxcars! It knows what happens in our heads, and it predicts our fucking futures.” He grabs your robe with one hand and tries to walk backwards in front of you, but his legs are too short, so mostly he ends up jogging alongside. “And our stupid fucking future - such as it is -” he spits, “- involves, fire circles, hand-holding, group sing-songs and talking about our fucking feelings!”

You blink, and try to organize your thoughts. You’re nearly ready to speak - something about what the hat said, bravery and loyalty and standing up for what you believe - when another girl cuts you off with a prim little harrumph.

“I’m getting really tired of listening to you badmouth our house!” she says, her arms crossed over her chest as she trots along with your group. “There’s nothing wrong with Hufflepuff; my family’s been in Hufflepuff for years!”

Jack leans around you, the better to get a glance at her. She’s about his height, maybe a bit taller, on the heavy side, not that you’ve got a lot of room to judge for that, and blonde, with big blue eyes that you can’t help but notice. She looks, too, like she might have quite a nice smile, if she would only stop frowning.

“Who’re you?” Jack asks.

“Matilda Paint,” she replies, matter-of-fact. “And I’ll thank you for not focusing on your perceived issues with Hufflepuffs.”

Jack sneers, but strangely enough, he doesn’t say anything. He tries, but it’s like he’s tongue-tied. At length, he ducks back into your shadow, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets. “What I’m saying,” he says, so quietly that there’s no mistaking that he’s speaking to you and you alone, “is that there has to be some kind of mistake. This isn’t the house a Noir gets sorted into; it just fucking isn’t. Noirs are ruthless and ambitious and the fucking hat _said_ I was all those things.” He glances down at his tie again, and takes a deep breath. “So why the hell is this goddamn tie _yellow_?”

You push aside your growing admiration of Jack’s swearing capability: at eleven years old he is able to weave an intricate tapestry of cussing that you will be hard-pressed to rival years later, much less right now. Instead, you try to stay calm. “What else did the hat say?”

He doesn’t look at you. “Some shit about loyalty,” he mumbles.

You think about that, but in the end, you decide not to press it: you hardly know this kid, after all. “Maybe it did make a mistake. But how bad can it be?”

The group in front of the two of you halts, and you lurch to a stop before you walk into the back of anyone. Jack rubs his eyes. “What am I gonna tell my parents?” he says, in a tone of voice that falls somewhere between a groan and a whimper. “I … I can’t tell ‘em I’m in Hufflepuff. They’ll shit.”

“I dunno,” you say, because you really don’t. This is all beyond your understanding, beyond anything you thought possible. To you, it’s incredible that Jack can focus on the simple matter of sorting, when around you there’s moving staircases and floating candles and ghosts. “Don’t tell ‘em anything.”

“Seven years,” he laments, picking at his tie. “Seven years of being stuck in a house I fucking hate.”

On your other side, Matilda Paint rolls her eyes. “Poor baby,” she mumbles, and shoots you a look. “Don’t let him sway you,” she hisses. “Hufflepuff isn’t something to be ashamed of at all: it’s really a wonderful house, and to be sorted here says volumes about your character.” She spares Jack a disgusted glance. “Or I thought so, anyway.”

You nod, but the Prefect up front has called you all to attention. Slowly, he goes through the instructions for opening the door to the common room. Easy enough, you think, although the barrel is a bit of a tight squeeze, made all the more unpleasant by Jack’s complaints.

It fades when you emerge on the other side, though, into a room warm and richly furnished, decorated with symbols of Hufflepuff and notable portraits alike. You can’t help but stare, drinking it all in, and you’re aware of the stupid smile on your face, but you can’t manage to get rid of it.

This is it. You are Hearts Boxcars, age eleven, and you are a wizard of Hufflepuff house. And, in spite of whatever the grouchy little bastard you got stuck here with says, it’s great.

“Boys’ dormitories are to the left,” the Prefect instructs, “while girls’ are to the right, down the passage a bit. Second door on the left.”

The girls split off, already talking and laughing like they’re old friends - girls are amazing, you think, how they just form that rapport right away - while the four boys stare at one another.

“You reckon one of the beds has a window?” one boy asks, and the three of you exchange a look.

“I’m calling it!” the other boy shouts, darting for the doorway, with the rest of you hot on his heels. You’re not sure why you care, but you’re running anyway, because the other three are doing it and you’d hate to get left out.

According to every law of narrative comedy, you manage to get yourselves stuck in the door. It’s too narrow for four boys, even when one’s as small as Jack, and the four of you end up wriggling and clawing, trying to break free.

“I called it first,” says the boy who truly did. “Rules say whoever calls shotgun gets the spoils!”

“Fuck you,” Jack snaps, briefly gaining an upper hand until someone pulls him back.

“Like you have a claim to it!” the other boy laughs. “You said it yourself: you don’t even belong here!”

“Yeah, an’ I’ll still be ten times the wizard you are!” Jack snarls. The first boy, however, breaks loose and hits the desired bed, sprawling his stocky frame spread-eagle and face-first on the yellow covers, his broad back bathed in pale moonlight that spills through the window, even though the windowpane barely ekes past ground level on the outside.

“Smells like home,” he announces, after taking a deep breath.

The remaining beds are less sought-after, and you politely hang back until Jack and the other boy have selected their choices. You even help Jack drag his trunk over to the correct bed, before retiring to your own four-poster.

It’s the most comfortable bed you’ve ever lain in, you think, as you flop backwards onto it. Magical - it has to be. You wriggle around in the yellow blankets until you can barely remember ever being uncomfortable, and you let your eyes close.

“So are we gonna introduce ourselves or what?” You open your eyes and sit up at that, looking to the boy who spoke: a buck-toothed kid with a fringe so unruly that it practically sticks straight up. He futilely attempts to smooth it down, patting his brown hair repeatedly in a display of firm dominance, but it doesn’t cooperate well.

“My name’s Fin,” he sighs, giving up. “Uh, from Scotland. I’m … um, I guess I’m a half-blood and I’m here with my twin brother, but he got sorted into Gryffindor.” He looks around. “What else? I’m happy to be in Hufflepuff, I guess, although I wish I were in the same house as Trace.” He thinks. “I’m … better at magic though, I think?” He bites the head off a chocolate frog and shrugs. “I dunno, someone else go.”

The boy that won the coveted window bed sits up. “Name’s Aimless Renegade. I like rules, and if I see any of you breaking ‘em I will turn you in: I’m here to learn to defend my wizarding cohorts, not to have fun. Hufflepuff is the only house that stands for justice and right, so I’m glad I’m Hufflepuff.”

Fin frowns at him, one eyebrow raised. “What about your parents? Wizards, no?”

“Yes: Aurors.”

Fin nods, like everything is suddenly clear. “I get it.” He offers Renegade a packet. “Jelly bean?”

The other boy pauses, and then requests, “I like the blue ones.” The packet lands on the bed at his feet. “Oh.”

“Just take ‘em all, I don’t care. What about you, big guy, what’s your story?”

You balk, and then gather your wits. “Uh, I’m Hearts. Boxcars,” you add, before you forget. “Everyone calls me Boxcars. Um, my parents aren’t magical. At all. So this is … this is all just …” you think of your books, and a word to describe what’s happening here. “It’s all just breathtaking.”

Fin snickers. “Have a chocolate frog, Boxcars, an’ get your breath back: this is just the dorms.”

“I know,” you say, nodding fervently. “I can’t imagine everything else. Like, casting spells and stuff.” You prod at your mattress. “It’s weird … hard to believe all this is real.”

“Can’t imagine,” Fin says, bored, and you know he truly can’t, having known about magic his whole life. “You like candy? Here’s some pumpkin pasties.” You just manage to catch a packet of sweets after he lobs them straight at your head. Lazily, he turns to look at Jack, laying in his bed, face buried in his pillow. Fin cocks his head, and then grins like a shark. “What’s’a matter, Noir? Having a cry?”

“Fuck you,” Jack says, presumably, because all you can hear is muffled hostility. Fin’s grin widens.

“Guess Jackie Noir let the whole family down, got sorted into the wrong house.” He bites off a strand of a licorice wand. “The sorting hat does make mistakes, you know: just sucks it had to be you.”

Jack turns his head just enough to be heard more clearly. “Are you trying to make me feel better? ‘Cause you suck at it.”

“Could be worse,” Fin points out, while you and Renegade exchange a look. “Could have been Gryffindor.” Underhand, he lobbed a packet of candy at Jack. “Come on, have some pepper imps, buck up a little. Nothing to be done about it now.”

You nod encouragingly when Jack looks over to you. “Might as well, I guess,” you say.

“I could get re-sorted.”

Renegade’s shaking his head before Jack’s mouth even closes. “No one’s ever been resorted; what makes you think you’d be the first?” He frowns a little. “There’s nothing saying you can’t still be friends with that Slytherin, even if you are in Hufflepuff.”

Jack scowls. “His name’s Droog.” Renegade shrugs.

“So what’s your story?” Fin asked, biting open another pack of pumpkin pasties. “Old family, all Slytherins, bluh bluh we know that. Where’re you from?” He risked a sideways glance. “What happened to your eye?”

“M’from London,” Jack mumbles stiffly, after a minute. He doesn’t say anything else, just tears into the pack of candy and stares gloomily into the little black figures. Fin and Renegade exchange a look, and then look to you. You shrug.

“S’that it? Jack from London?” Renegade asks.

Jack glares at him. “It’s all you need to know.”

Another skeptical look between the other two. “Come on, you’re gonna have to tell everyone what happened eventually, or else rumors are gonna start,” Fin wheedles. “What’s it look like? Is it gross?”

Jack shrugs. “I dunno,” he replies, monotone.

“Just -“

You cut in then. “Leave off him, Fin.”

Jack looks offended, drawing himself up and crinkling his nose like that. “I don’t need your help.”

“So just answer the ques -” Fin starts, and just like that Jack’s pulling off his eyepatch. None of you recoil. In fact, you all lean in. “Oh, man. Wicked.” Jack scowls. “No, seriously that’s badass.”

For the first time since the sorting hat made its decision, Jack Noir perks up a little. “You think so?”

“Yeah!” Renegade agrees. “With the scar and everything! Dude, you look like … like …”

“A Bond villain,” you contribute. Fin points at you, voicing his agreement, but Jack and Renegade look blank. “It’s a movie,” you explain, a little sheepish under the attentive gaze of five eyes. “James Bond, he’s this secret agent, and he always has to fight these really smooth evil villains for Queen and country … and sometimes the world …”

“It’s really cool,” Fin affirms.

Jack’s mouth twists sideways and he plucks a little candy out of the pack, giving it a long, hard stare. “Hmph.”

You chomp on another pumpkin pasty, and decide to change the subject: Jack seems at least a little mollified at the moment, and you’d rather like to keep it that way. “So what’re those?” you ask, pointing to the candies in his hand. The other three look at you, and then Fin giggles.

“Just little candies,” he says, innocently. “Right, Jack?”

Jack grins broadly. “Yeah, just candy.” He pops one into his mouth, chews, and then closes his eyes and lays back on his bed. And then he breathes out a tremendous plume of flames. You scream, and the others laugh.

“What the hell is that?” you ask, drawing your beefy arm up in front of your face, for protection, if needed. “Are you okay?”

“Pepper Imps,” Renegade explains. “They’re magic, they make you breathe fire.” Jack nods, and then slides off his bed, padding over to you. “Want one?”

You look from the candy, and then back to him - not his eye, you’re careful not to look at his eye - and shake your head. “I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, retreating to his four-poster and flopping back, kicking off his shoes. Renegade and Fin are swapping other candies, chatting and laughing. You lend their conversation half an ear, laughing when you understand what they’re talking about, but mostly looking blankly back and forth between them and Jack, who’s chowing down on pepper imps like he didn’t just have some kind of insane magical dinner.

Eventually, you lose track of the conversation, when Jack joins in and the three of them start talking about celebrities and sports that you’ve never even heard of. You’re not offended - you’re going to have seven years to learn about this, after all - but you’re lost, so you pull out a quill pen and sheaf of paper. You think for a little while, before you start writing. Trying to write; the pen’s not working.

It’s only after a minute of frustrated scratching and scribbling at the paper before you realize the conversation has stopped. You look up, wide-eyed at first, and then embarrassed.

“What’re you doin’?” Jack asks, grinning broadly.

“Writin’ a letter,” you mumble.

Renegade nods, like he’s impressed. “Without ink, huh?”

You blink, and then look at the nib of the pen. “Oh. Sorry, I’m used to -“

“Cheap muggle pens, we gotcha.” Fin shrugged. “I think they’re easier to use than quills but what’re you gonna do, you know?”

Jack kicks open your trunk, uninvited, and starts digging through your stuff. “Hey,” you warn. “What are you -“

“D’you even buy ink?”

“Was it on the shopping list?”

Jack snorts. “I dunno. Ha!” he holds an ink pot aloft, and then jumps onto the bed next to you. “Know how to use a quill, Boxcars?”

“Obviously not,” Fin replies, lazy, pulling writing supplies out of his own trunk. “Guess I oughta write my parents, too.”

Renegade nods. “Me too.”

“Babies,” Jack mumbles. And then he launches into an explanation about how to use quills, mostly interspersed with disparaging comments about your non-magical parentage. The thing is, it’s not like he stops helping you. He doesn’t stop complaining, but he doesn’t leave, either.

You figure it out quickly - you’re not stupid - and set in on writing your letter, blotting the paper now and again but by and large producing a legible correspondence. Jack reads as you write, chin in his hand, expression bored. “What about you?” you ask, swearing when you blotch the paper again.

“What about me?”

“You gonna write a letter?”

He sighs through his nose. “Why?” he asks, sullenness creeping back into his tone. “What’s the point?”

“At least tell ‘em you got here safe,” you suggest. “You don’t have to say anything else.”

“They’ll know - the school sends letters.” He loosens his tie, and then pulls it off, holding the strip of yellow and black fabric in both hands, before crumpling it up and pitching it into his trunk. “They’ll know everything.”

You lower your voice, but the room’s only so big, and you know the other two are listening. “You really think they’ll be upset? S’not like you could help it.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“So what’s the worst than can happen?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe I get disowned. Maybe they’ll kill me over Christmas hols. No one’ll care about the Hufflepuff kid; I might as well be dead.”

“Oh, would you shut up,” Fin groans. “Your parents aren’t going to kill you over your house.”

“You don’t know my parents!”

Renegade looks up. “I do,” he says, quietly. “Ichabod and Bertina Noir.” He goes back to his letter, and calmly opines, “Your dad probably won’t kill you.”

Jack glares. “Fuck you, fucking Auror brat.” Renegade just shrugs. “I’ll talk to the Headmaster, and we’ll see -“

“Dumbledore’s not going to re-sort you!” Fin groans. “And even if he allows it, the hat won’t do it! Once and done.” He waves his hands. “Why not try to talk your parents into thinking it’s something _good_ , rather than being all gloom and doom about the whole thing? It’s just a house, anyway - you’re still gonna learn the same stuff!” He pegs Jack in the head with an unopened inkwell. “Just write a fucking letter - ow!”

“I’m goin’ to sleep,” Jack says, sliding off your bed and returning to his own, while Fin rubs at a rapidly-forming bruise on his cheek.

“Come on, Noir.” Jack doesn’t respond, instead pulling the yellow curtains shut around his bed and disappearing from view.

“Jack,” you say, but Renegade waves a hand.

“Enchanted curtains. Don’t let light or sound in, really.”

You nod, like you’re not once again stunned. “Of course.” You look down to your letter, re-read it, and then lay it aside. You’re exhausted, you realize, and you yawn and stretch.

“You turning in, too?” Renegade asks, trying to stave off a yawn of his own.

“Yeah, I think so. Night.” They mumble goodnights, and you pull the curtain, stripping off your robe and trousers, and dumping them at the foot of the bed.

Part of you - a large part - is still racing, caught up in the excitement of the day, but you’re so exhausted otherwise that your body insists on sleep. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath and nuzzling in to your soft, yellow pillow, and start drifting off. Your last though before you fall asleep is that you really do hope the curtains are soundproof, for the others’ sake: you’ve always snored terribly.


	3. Chapter 3

Your name is HEARTS BOXCARS and you - in spite of your placid nature - are REALLY EXCITED. It is your first day of WIZARD SCHOOL but, more importantly, it is time for BREAKFAST.

Last night, when you arrived at Hogwarts, there was a feast laid out, with all manner of foods you’d never even been aware of. Not that that made them less delicious: you’d scarcely been able to eat half the things that looked enticing, and it was with no small amount of disappointment that you’d pushed yourself away from the table, resolved to missing some of the dishes you’d had to pass on, possibly forever. Magic feasts, you’d figured, were probably only for special occasions.

Now - this morning - it appears that you’re wrong. Magic feasts are, possibly, for all occasions. The breakfast spread isn’t quite as extensive as supper’s, but when you step into the Great Hall, behind Jack, you have to stop and shake your head. The smaller boy notices the absence of your bulk and turns to you. “What’s your problem?”

“There’s so much food,” you breathe. “I thought the feast was last night.”

Jack fixes you with a look that could only charitably described as skeptical, and then looks to the tables. “It’s just breakfast.”

“Yeah but …” You shake your head and start walking again, doing your best to get a hold of yourself. “It’s just a far sight from breakfast at home, as all.” You sit down next to Jack at the Hufflepuff table, and waste no time shoveling food onto your plate. “Is this what every wizard breakfast is like?”

Jack shoves an entire pancake into his mouth. “Nah,” he answers, mouth full. “Most mornings my dad just made an omelette or something.” He swallows. “They just gotta serve a lot of people here.”

You nod in agreement, somewhat more at ease now that you’re assured that this isn’t routine for everyone. The thought that there are others here that are equally astounded by the spread helps you settle down, even if just a little. “So what, uh,” you say slowly, cautiously, because Jack’s looking at his tie again. “Jack?”

He’s thinking, and when he looks over to you he looks tired, like he hasn’t slept at all. Perhaps he hasn’t, you think; there’s no way for you to know, not with the curtains around the beds. You re-think your question. “You okay?”

“Fine.” He drops his tie and shoves another pancake into his mouth.

“Did you, uh.” You take a bite of bacon and give him a minute to swallow; you’d hate for him to spray half-chewed pancake on your robe. “You look tired.”

“I ain’t.”

“Okay.” You drop it and return to your original question, because Jack seems unwilling to continue much longer in the current vein. “So what’re the classes we’re taking today? Like, what are we doing in them?”

He seems happy enough - and by that, you mean grudgingly tolerant enough - to answer that question. His schedule is produced from a pocket, and smoothed out on the table. It’s already torn and crinkled, but between the two of you you manage to decipher it.

“S’nice they’re starting us with Charms,” he says, prodding the schedule. “That’s kinda the general class; most of the spells you’re gonna use day-to-day are gonna be charms.”

“How many are we gonna learn?” you ask. “Like, in each lesson?”

He snorts. “In the beginning, probably one a week. Maybe less, maybe more.” He runs his finger down the timetable, to the next class. “Then we’ve got potions with the Ravenclaws.”

You cock your head, and squint at the schedule. “And then what? It’s blank.”

“Homework or some bullshit, I dunno.” He chomps on a sausage and sprinkles grease over the schedule as he keeps reading. “Oh, flying on Thursday.”

“Flying?” you ask, wide-eyed. “How … Like …”

“On brooms,” he says, like it’s patently obvious. You’re working on stuttering out your next question when he blanches and looks up. There’s a fluttering sound permeating the Great Hall, and when you follow Jack’s glance, there’s a tide of owls - not unlike the one you found in your bedroom with a letter - swarming through the windows. “Oh, shit.”

“What? Are they attacking or something?”

“No,” Jack groans, hunching down and busying himself with the remains of his breakfast, clearly trying to hide in his slightly-too-large robe. “Mail’s here.”

No sooner has he said that, than a brown owl flutters arthritically to the table in front of you, and drops a letter on your plate. “Thank you,” you tell it, stunned, plucking the letter from the plate before syrup completely saturates the envelope. You snap the seal open and pull the letter - plain old lined notebook paper, none of this parchment - free of the envelope.

**‘Hearts,**

**The letter from the owl tells me I can write you a letter, to be delivered tomorrow. I have to say I’m skeptical, but no harm in it, since owls have been the standard thus far.**

**The letter also says you’ve been sorted into a house called Hufflepuff. I’m not sure what that means, or entails, but I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully. Just remember to eat your greens, and stay on schedule with your studies. I hope you make lots of new friends. Write often, dear; I miss you.**

**Love,  
Mum’**

You fold the letter up, blushing a little; you’re not sure if Jack read it over your shoulder or not. You really hope not. That said, you’re also feeling a twinge of bashful guilt in your gut, because you’ve not sent her the letter you wrote last night yet. You’ll have to get someone to show you how to do that later, you resolve.

You look over to Jack, expecting to find him snickering at you, or still eating. Instead, he’s staring at his own letter. His hands aren’t shaking, and he’s not crying, but he’s gone very pale. Abruptly, he pushes back from the table and hurries from the hall. You spin, half a mind to follow him, but across the aisle from you is another figure - tall and skinny, green lining in his robes, already half-jogging after Jack.

“Droog!” you blurt, before you can stop yourself. You stumble off the bench, shoving your letter into your pocket, and almost trip over the little guy - Deuce - on your way to the other boy. “You following Jack?”

Droog just nods and starts walking again, you and Deuce trotting along behind him. For a moment the three of you pause in the front hall, and then Deuce spots it: a yellow hem, just barely peeking out from under a staircase. “He’s over there, Droog,” Deuce whispers, tugging on the taller boy’s sleeve. You let the two Slytherins go ahead - they’re quieter - and you take your time following, measuring your footfalls carefully against the cold stone.

Jack’s not crying when the three of you lean around the edge of the stairs, but he’s still pale, and his hands are shaking. The letter’s clenched in his fist, crumbled beyond readability.

“What do you want,” he snaps, monotone, staring straight ahead. “Come to gloat?”

Droog doesn’t hesitate before sitting down on the ground next to him. “No. Mostly I came to make sure you don’t do anything stupid; I don’t know about the other two.”

“Are you okay?” you ask, again, by way of explanation.

“I came out here because we’re friends!” Deuce chirps, happily standing in your shadow. He looks up at you. “What’s your name again?”

“Hearts,” you tell him, quietly, because Jack’s talking about the letter. Droog’s plucked it from his shaking hand, and he’s reading it over.

“It’d be better if I’d got a Howler. A Howler I can deal with,” Jack insists. “I’d be pissed at a Howler.” He waves toward the letter. “How’m I supposed to be mad about this bullshit? I can’t … They’re not mad, they’re not scandalized. Fuck, the worst they probably are is disappointed.”

You crane your neck to read the letter over Droog’s shoulder. You can’t make it all out - it’s far to mutilated for that - but you can catch a few phrases. They - Jack’s parents - are not upset, they assure him. They’re surprised. They’re not sure how the rest of the family will take it. They expected him to end up in Slytherin - to do the family name proud - but they suppose that just wasn’t in the cards. Oh well, they say. Do well, they say.

‘We’ll be on holiday over Christmas, Jack,’ they say. ‘Perhaps it’s better for your studies to stay at Hogwarts, anyway.’

“I’m sorry,” Droog says.

Jack scoffs. “Why?” he asks, although the sarcasm in his tone is strong enough to peel paint. “They’re not upset. They’re just _surprised_.” He laughs a little, and no one says anything about how the last part sounds like a choked-off little sob. “It’s not them, it’s the family.” He buries his face in his arms, and pulls his knees to his chest. Droog puts one steady hand on his shoulder. “And they’re going on holiday over Christmas.”

“But you get to stay here!” Deuce chirps. “It’s nice here; I bet it’ll be fun to be here!”

“Come on, Jack,” Droog says. “It’s just a letter: and if they’re not really upset you can impress them. Get yourself together.”

Jack looks over to Droog like he’s never seen him before in his life. Then his lip curls, and he shows his teeth. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Droog rolls his eyes, and you’re expecting a fight. Then again, Droog’s known Jack longer than you have, and you’re not totally surprised to see him subvert the fight entirely. Droog nods, and sighs, and gets up, brushing the dirt off his robes. “I’ll be in the library after class,” he tells Jack. Then he gestures to Deuce. “Come on, we’ve got Defense class.”

“But Jack’s still upset!” Deuce says, looking - worried - to the boy under the stairs. “Shouldn’t we -“

“Later,” Droog says. He grabs Deuce’s green-lined hood and heads back toward the great hall. You make to follow, but he holds a finger up, and then points back toward Jack. You cock your head.

“You know him better,” you whisper.

He shrugs. “And you’re wearing yellow. See you after classes.”

You watch them go, Deuce still clearly upset about leaving Jack behind. Then you turn to Jack, and walk quietly over to him. You stand there for a minute, listening to him try not to cry, watching him glare fiercely at a stone in the floor, the letter balled up in his lap. Eventually, you sit down.

You’re not really sure what to say, so you don’t say anything. Jack picks at the letter, and glares at the stone, and breathes deep and haltingly. You can both hear the hustle of students flowing out of the great hall and to their classes, but neither of you move. You glance behind you, and then you look to him. You’re on his blind side, so you know he can’t see you, so you clear your throat.

“We oughta get to charms,” you say. “I don’t want to be late.”

He looks blankly at you for a long time, and you’re a little worried. But then he sneers, and scoffs at you, and swipes his sleeve across his runny nose. “Goody two-shoes muggle kids,” he mumbles, stuffing the letter into his pocket and clambering to his feet. You’re glad you had the forethought to grab his book bag on the way out of breakfast after him, and you hand it back to him. The two of you set off together, side-by-side, you lagging maybe a little, because Jack seems to be more sure of where you’re headed than you are.

You do get lost, but you’re still on time, more-or-less, when you stumble on the door to the charms classroom. Jack hasn’t said a word the entire time, slouching along with his hands in his pockets, so he takes you by surprise when he does finally speak.

“Hey, Boxcars?” He pauses, his hand on the door. “Thanks.”

You blink. “I didn’t do anything, though.”

“Yeah.” A weak little smile manages to work its way onto his face. “Thanks.”


	4. Chapter 4

Your name is DIAMONDS DROOG, and you think you’re going to like the library. It’s quiet, and people leave you alone there. You’ve chosen a table off in the corner, and you’re reading there, studying for your next class. Not because you enjoy studying or learning - a lot of people think that about you, but a lot of people are wrong. No, you’re studying for your next class because you like to know more than anyone else in the room.

And considering your next class is transfiguration, you think it’s probably smart to get a head start.

There’s someone joining you, too: CLUBS DEUCE, the latest installment in a long line of witches and wizards renowned for their wit, intelligence and creativity in tight spots. And while you’ve only known Clubs for a little over a day, you are pretty sure Clubs, while a nice kid, is a total whittle. You’re a little stunned he ended up in Slytherin at all; part of you wants to think he might have hidden depths, but a much larger part thinks the hat was off its game last night.

In fact, you’re almost certain the hat was not up to par, because while you’re still sort of undecided about Clubs, you’re totally shocked by Jack. Hufflepuff? If there was ever a born Slytherin, you think, it was most certainly Jack Noir. And while you’ve been trying to be stoic for him - if you flew off the rails, God knows what Jack would do - you can’t say you blame him for his reaction. You expected his parents’ reaction, too, which helped, but by the same token you now feel responsible, at 11, for fixing a problem out of your control. It’s sort of making you nauseous.

“Why are you studying?” Deuce asks, looking up from his comic book. “What for?”

“Transfiguration,” you say, startled out of your reverie, not that Clubs could probably tell; you’d just been staring blankly at the page open in front of you. “Want to get a head start.”

“Oh.” He sits back in his chair and turns a page, his legs swinging. “You’re pretty smart, aren’t you?”

You frown. “I … guess so …”

“I mean, you knew all the spells in Defense! I hadn’t heard of any of them. Well, most of them. Some of them,” he says, amending himself as he speaks. “Two. Did you parents teach you magic before you came to Hogwarts?”

“It’s illegal to do magic outside of school,” you say, hesitant.

“Well I know that,” he sighs, exasperated. “But did they tell you about things?”

You think about it. “No. I just paid attention.”

He taps the side of his nose, a gesture which is almost like a caricature in someone so small and baby-faced. “Clever; they’ll never expect it.”

That bewilders you, and you blink a little. “But they … knew I was in the room,” you point out.

Clubs shrugs. “You think Jack and Hearts are going to come?”

Talking to Deuce has been like this since the beginning, and you’re starting to wonder if you can actually get conversational whiplash. “Maybe,” you say, wide-eyed and a little startled. Deuce nods.

“I hope so,” he says, before bending back over his comic book. “Jack seems pretty upset, but I think that Hearts guy is pretty calm! Maybe he’ll calm him down.” He reads a little before he says, “I like Hearts.”

“Yeah,” you agree, tentative. “He seems alright.” You glance at your watch, and to the door of the library. Morning lessons let out forty minutes ago, and you’re starting to have your doubts about Jack showing up before lunch. You might see him then, you think, but if lunch is like breakfast, then it’s a chaotic event in which you barely have time to talk to your own housemates, much less find someone from another house.

You finish considering various ways to track Jack down before the end of the day, and start back in on your studying, when you hear a pop. No, not a pop, you realize, because the sound ‘pop’ is rarely followed by the acrid smell of burning … something. An explosion, you think, if a small one. Clubs’ eyes light up.

“Something’s burning!” He sniffs. “Hair, and … wool. And skin.”

You both exchange a look and you’re out of your seats in a flash, Deuce stuffing his comic away and you abandoning your textbooks and bookbag; if anyone wants your quills and elementary textbooks, you figure, they’re welcome to them. You dart for the door, but the librarian beats you to it, flinging the doors wide and drawing herself up to her full height in the entryway.

“What is the meaning of this?” she snaps. You and Clubs shamble to a halt behind her, and your mouth falls open. There’s no fire, not anymore, but there was one, if the scorch marks climbing the walls are any indication. That, and the fact that Snowman is currently missing an eyebrow and the better part of her robe. Her shirt, thankfully, seemed to have escaped.

And not ten feet away, wand still in hand, is Jack Noir. “My hand slipped,” he says, but it’s not very convincing. Snowman splutters something, pointing an accusatory finger, and Madam Pince looks severely down at the dark-haired boy.

“Your hand,” she says slowly, “slipped.”

He shrinks back, into the shadow of Hearts Boxcars. “You know how it is,” he mumbles.

“I could have died!” Snowman finally manages. “You almost killed me!” A couple boys gathered around her - Ravenclaws, her year - stand defensively in front of her. One of them, the one with the ugly scar across his forehead, harrumphs like he’s eons older than fourteen.

“We were studying,” Jack says quickly, frantic. “Talkin’ about charms that we looked up an’ I didn’t realize somethin’ might happen and I didn’ mean to -” He looks up to Hearts. “You know I didn’t mean to do anything!”

Madam Pince looks from Jack to Hearts, while one of the older boys offers Snowman his robe. She accepts, and runs her fingers over where her eyebrow formerly existed. You don’t laugh, although you think you hear Jack snickering; mostly, you feel bad for her. She’s always been nasty to Jack, but losing an eyebrow is a terrible thing.

It sort of occurs to you that at least that’ll grow back, and his eye never will, but still, losing an eyebrow. It’s like choosing between losing a finger or your hand: one’s clearly less dramatic, but both are still horrifying.

“Well, Mr. Boxcars?” Pince asks, crossing her wire-thin arms over her chest. “Is Mr. Noir telling the truth?”

You wince, inwardly. Hearts Boxcars is an okay guy, because he’s a Hufflepuff through-and-through. Big, dependable, solid, not too bright and honest as the day is lo -

“Yeah, it’s my fault: I asked him about the one with the fire.” He shrugs. “We didn’ know what would happen, ma’am, honestly …”

Pince takes a deep breath, and then turns away from the two boys; instantly, you realize the danger has passed. You stare at Boxcars, wide-eyed, and you swear in that moment you have never been more grateful to anyone in your entire life, and that includes your sister, that one time she pulled you out of the dumbwaiter and didn’t tell your parents. As the librarian bustles over to Snowman and tends to her - all her injuries are at worst cosmetic - you and Deuce sidle to Jack and Boxcars.

“What the hell,” you say, flatly, to Jack. “Are you stupid?”

“I swear I didn’t think it would work!” he hisses. “Besides, are we forgettin’ last summer? She deserves it!”

“You could be expelled!” you snap, hands contorting into claws at your sides. “Christ, Jack, day one and you’re setting fire to other students!”

“I wonder if that’s a record,” he muses, unphased.

Your face falls. “You’re impossible,” you decide, while Clubs bursts into giggles. You’re about to say something to Hearts - Jack’s too infuriating for you at the moment, and the least you could do would be to thank the big guy - when Madam Pince turns back around.

“And that will be thirty points from Slytherin!” she huffs, voice shrill. You and Clubs whirl.

“What’d we do, ma’am?” Clubs asks, wide-eyed and honestly confused.

“Not you,” she replies irritably. “Jack there - oh. Oh, I did forget.” She frowns, although this time it’s more thoughtful than angry. “I suppose thirty points from … Hufflepuff, then. Not Slytherin.” She shakes her head.

Snowman, in spite of her singular eyebrow, looks smug at that. “Yes, Jack’s in Hufflepuff. Not Slytherin. Sorry, I should have told you.”

“No, dear, it’s quite alright. I ought to have remembered and even then, he should be wearing his tie,” she finished, sharp and cold. Jack shifts uncomfortably and pulls his tie, crumpled and sad-looking, from his pocket. “An additional five points from Hufflepuff for improper uniform.”

“Oh, come on miss,” Jack whines, but Madam Pince turns away, ushering Snowman toward the hospital wing. “Fucking uniform horse shit,” he concludes, spiking his tie to the ground. Patiently, you pick it up and start fastening it around his neck.

“Get the fuck off,” he snarls, swatting at your hands. “I don’t wanna wear the stupid thing.”

“I refuse,” you say patiently, as you finish off a neat Windsor knot, “to watch Slytherin beat Hufflepuff for the House Cup solely because you refuse to observe the rules pertaining to uniforms.”

Hearts raises his eyebrows. “What about for refusal to keep from using spells we haven’t learned on other students?”

You shrug. “At least that’s taking some initiative, I guess.”

“My mum always says I need to take more initiative,” Clubs agrees. “We thought you were gonna ditch us, Jack! We were waiting in the library.”

He scowls. “We were comin’, short stuff.” You think Jack likes calling Deuce that, if only because it reminds Jack that he’s not the shortest student in the class. “Jus’ got caught up doin’ stuff.”

“The Professor really wanted us to get the charm he was teaching us down,” Hearts says quietly. “I don’t know if I got it at all. I’m not -“

“Oh for Christ’s sake, here he goes again.” Jack finally manages to evade you, and moves next to Hearts, crossing his arms and leaning up against the bigger boy. “This kid thinks you learn everything you need to know about magic in two hours,” he scoffs. “Never picked up a wand in his damn life an’ he’s upset ‘cause he ain’t a natural.” He pokes Hearts in the considerable stomach, and you marvel a little at how Jack - the same angry, volatile Jack you’ve known your whole life - teases a smile onto the big guy’s face. “You’re not gettin’ this overnight, Boxcars!”

“But you and Renegade and -“

Jack rolls his eye. “Grew up wizards? Knew what we were from the beginning? Spent our entire damn lives around magic?” He pokes Boxcars again. “You’re gonna be one of those goddamn over-achievers, ain’t you?”

“I don’t think so,” Boxcars says quietly, but he’s smiling. “I jus’ thought it’d be easier, since I’m supposed to be able to -“

“You did it!” Jack throws his hands up, glares at Boxcars, and then turns to you and Deuce, gesturing demonstratively at his housemate. “He did it, way before a couple of other kids did. We were late because that Fin kid and those two girls couldn’t get anything done!” He sighs and looks back to Boxcars. “You’re so damn whiny.”

The big guy punches Jack in the shoulder and sends the shorter kid reeling. You and Deuce laugh. “Says you! All I’ve had to listen to for the last fourteen hours is …” he trails off, suddenly aware that this might not be a great idea. “Uh.”

You’ve gone very still, and tense. So has Jack. “Is what?” Noir asks.

“Um. Never mind, Jack, sorry it -“

Jack snarls; Boxcars doesn’t have to say what he meant, because you all know. Jack leaps, straight into Boxcars’ arms. Shocked, the other kid practically catches him. “You think I’m fucking whiny for getting disowned by my damn family?” Jack snarls, wriggling in the bear-hug Hearts has him locked in. He flails, but Boxcars has Jack’s back clamped hard to his own stomach, so all of the other kid’s blows barely do more than glance off. “It ain’t the same!”

“I didn’t think!” Boxcars grunts. “Honestly, Jack, I’m sorry!”

“Jack,” you say, over your friend’s nearly-incoherent death threats. “Calm down. Come on, Jack, settle.”

He does, briefly, hands braced against Hearts’ forearms. His eye patch got knocked loose in the scuffle and is hanging from his neck. Silly as it looks, it only serves to make him more unnerving: his green eye and his white, mutilated one are fixed firmly on you. “He didn’t mean anything by it.”

You’re about to say more when Clubs steps forward and puts one hand on Jack’s knee. “He didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Jack,” he says, patient and kind. “We’re your friends: we don’t want to hurt you.”

Jack twists in Hearts’ arms. “He’s my friend now?”

“‘Course he is!” Clubs smiles. “And me an’ Droog. We’re here to help you through everything, ‘cause that’s what friends do.” Jack relaxes a little in Hearts’ grasp as he looks around at the three of you, gathered around him. “And as your friend, Jack,” he says slowly, “I’m gonna tell you that you need to stop bein’ pissed about the sorting ceremony.”

Jack starts growling again, but Clubs keeps going. “You can’t change it, right? It’s done! An’ I know the sorting hat is supposed to be really smart about what people are like, but that doesn’t mean you have to be exactly what the hat says about your house.” Clubs smiles. “You can still be just who you are, just in different colors! And we can all still be friends,” he adds. “Houses don’t matter if you’re a crew.”

You all think about it, and to be frank you’re kind of reeling: maybe you were right when you considered there must be more to Clubs Deuce than met the eye. Jack thinks the longest, before sullenly muttering, “What about my family?”

Clubs makes a thoughtful noise. “Have you ever done bad things before?”

“Course.”

“And they forgave you?” Jack nods. “Then do exactly what you would’a done if you’d got sorted into Slytherin, and they’ll forgive you again!” He beams. “An’ if they don’t by Christmas, I’ll stay here with you.”

“They won’ - you will?” He scoffs. “Deuce, I don’t even know you.”

“I’ll stay too.” The promise falls from your mouth before your brain really has a chance to process it. Fuck, your parents are going to be mad. But, you think, you still want to stay. Jack looks at you, and you nod. “Seriously.”

“And me,” Boxcars rumbles. “My mom won’t mind, she’s got my kid brother to worry about.”

“There you go, then!” Deuce says. “It’ll be fun.”

Jack looks blankly at all of you, craning his neck to catch Boxcars out of the corner of his eye. “You’re serious?”

You decide it’s time to jump in. “On one condition: you gotta stop being in denial about being in Hufflepuff.” Jack blanches, and then flashes his teeth. “Listen, I don’t like it any more than you do,” you admit. “I think the hat was wrong too, okay? But the more you try to sabotage everything Hufflepuff, the more you’re hurting yourself, okay? They’re not going to put you into Slytherin.” He settles down, and Hearts sets him down with a grunt. “Like Deuce says: it doesn’t really mean anything. Not to us, anyway.”

He looks tense, like he’s going to jump, but then he just sags. “I still don’t like it,” he snaps at you, dropping his bag and putting his eye patch back on. “It’s not … I’m not …”

“I know.” You shrug. “But what are we gonna do?”

Hearts puts his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “It’s not so bad,” he says gently. “There’s good stuff. I mean, you’re not gonna be the worst one in the house at magic,” he adds. “‘Cause that’ll be me.”

“No,” he snickers, a smile breaking through the gloom on his face. “It’s Fin.”

“Yeah,” Boxcars agrees. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s definitely Fin.” He starts walking; you think he probably thinks he’s going to lunch, but you’re not ready to point out he’s going the wrong way, yet.

“Hey,” Jack says, laughing harder now, “wrong way, doofus.” He blushes bright red and heads back, the four of you falling into step on your way to the great hall.

“I wish we could sit together,” Clubs says. “Seems silly we have to sit at house tables!”

“Upperclassmen are allowed to eat outside,” you say, thoughtful. “On nice days, that is.”

Jack smirks. “So why only them?”

What annoys you the most about the whole exercise (and even that doesn’t annoy you very much) is that your robe gets stained when you stuff some sandwiches under it. The points you lose for eating out of bounds don’t bother you, nor do the points you lose for being late to class. In fact, you think they may be fully worth it, because for the first time since you’ve come to Hogwarts, Jack seems genuinely happy.

“Hey, Droog.” He shoves you as you walk back into the castle, trailing behind the groundskeeper, freshly reprimanded for your trespasses.

“What?”

He stops, and you stop with him. “S’my tie on straight?” He averts his eye, and rubs the back of his neck. “Only there’s this girl -“

You break into a grin. “Yeah,” you say, although you fiddle with the black and yellow cloth a little anyway. “Yeah, Jack, you look fine.”


	5. Chapter 5

Ms Matilda Paint, age 11, remembers the first time Jack Noir ever talked to her. It was the first night at Hogwarts, on the way to the dorms, and she told him to shut up about how horrible it was that he’d been sorted into Hufflepuff. She remembers it, not because it was love at first sight, but because she’d instantly disliked him.   
  
She also remembers the second time he talked to her. It was in Charms, the next day, and she’d been struggling with the simple spell Flitwick had started them out with. Jack had been one of the first students to master it, and had been boredly casting the spell, over and over, while everyone else in the class puzzled it out on their own. As the end of class neared, and she still hadn’t managed to cast the spell even once, he’d coughed and said, pointedly, “I wish some people would get their fuckin’ acts together, ‘cause I could eat.”   
  
She remembers that because not only did it convince her - and Peregrine Mendicant, her closest new friend - that Jack was a truly horrible person, it also made her cry for forty minutes in the bathroom, after lessons.   
  
“It’s not like I was being deliberately thick,” she’d whimpered, while PM had rubbed her back, the two of them perched on the rim of the toilet. “I wanted to finish the spell just the same as he did -”   
  
“You weren’t being thick,” PM assured her. “He’s an ass.”   
  
Now, a sparse three days later, Ms Matilda Paint is not exactly thrilled to have come, once again, under Jack Noir’s attention. He’s not said much to her since the Charms lesson, really: he barely spared her a glance in Transfiguration, they didn’t so much as acknowledge one another in Defense, and when the time came in Potions for them to pick partners, Jack’s attention had been immediately monopolized by a blonde-haired Ravenclaw boy who seemed bound and determined to show Jack his extensive collection of chocolate frog cards. The fact that he had not actually  had said cards, and instead had produced a handful of magical playing cards, resplendent with moving portraiture of scantily-clad men, had been an amusing aside to the lesson that had happily lost Ravenclaw forty points, although Jack lost upwards of fifty throughout the lesson based on his conduct, and his language.    
  
It had only served to solidify Matilda’s opinion of Jack, and his horrid disposition. Which was why, on Thursday, when Jack sidled over to stand next to her in flying lessons, she picked up her broom and stormed off, moving down the line to stand between two Gryffindors that looked a little bewildered at her sudden appearance.   
  
“Uh, the Hufflepuffs are -”    
  
She snapped, “I know.” The two Gryffindors flanking her stared at her for a moment, exchanged a puzzled look behind her back, and then went back to forward-facing, just in time for Madam Hooch to begin the lesson.   
  
She acknowledged the students’ excitement about flying, and well enough, Matilda thought: the buzz was nearly palpable in the cool fall air. She then went on to explain the dangers of flying, and broom-mounted sports, and how if the students didn’t listen they would surely all fall to their gruesome deaths, and Madam Hooch would not feel even a little bad, because if they died it would obviously be because they did not pay attention to her pre-flight safety briefing. Matilda nodded attentively throughout the entire speech, rapt and very focused on Madam Hooch, thank you very much, and not Jack Noir, who kept shooting her urgent looks from several yards away.   
  
“Now, remember,” Madam Hooch warned, “you are not to fly high today; if you can’t brush the tips of your shoes against the grass, you’re flying too high!”   
  
The Gryffindor to Matilda’s right rolled his eyes. “Like we’ve never flown brooms before.”   
  
“Some people haven’t,” she muttered. The taller boy startled, and then had the decency to look sheepish.    
  
“Oh. Right, yeah, I guess … Sorry.”   
  
Madam Hooch went through the procedure for bidding a broom to rouse to service. Shortly thereafter, the Quidditch pitch was flooded with students, spread out and yelling ‘UP!’ at the school’s collection of elderly broomsticks, some of which arthritically rose to their student’s hand, and some of which simply languished on the ground in the most convincing display of inanimate object despair Matilda had ever seen.   
  
She herself had claimed a small patch of grass away from most of the central action, where she was sure to go unnoticed if her first flying lesson went the same way her first charms lesson had. PM had wandered over as well, mostly for moral support, and the two of them hesitantly extended their hands over their brooms. “You go first,” PM encouraged, the two girls exchanging a tense look. “Go on.”   
  
Matilda shook her head. “No, you first. You’ve done this before.”   
  
“I have not!” PM shook her head. “My family doesn’t really use broomsticks; we usually go by Floo, or just by car …”   
  
She looked down to her broom. “I just don’t want to look silly,” she decided. “Shouting at a broom in the middle of a field - that’s the sort of thing crazy people do, isn’t it?”   
  
“It’s the sort of things witches and wizards do,” PM said, although she didn’t sound convinced of it. “Come on, we’ll go together then. On three.” She nodded encouragingly. “Come on! One, two -”   
  
“Hey, Matilda!” PM stopped, and she and Matilda looked up to see none other than Jack Noir astride his own school-loaned broomstick, hovering a couple feet off the ground. They glared. “Uh,” he said more slowly. “Um. Hi.”   
  
Matilda’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want? Come to gloat again?”   
  
“No,” he said, bewildered. “No, I just fuckin’ thought I’d say -”   
  
Matilda scooped her broomstick up and turned her back to him, storming off. “I don’t want to talk to you, Jack Noir.”   
  
PM stuck her tongue out at him for good measure before following, affecting her best indignant flounce. Jack hovered for a minute, eyes wide and jaw loose, before leaning forward, after the girls.   
  
“Not,” Droog said, swooping gracefully in front of him, “a very good idea.”   
  
Jack sat back and crossed his arms, wobbling a little in the air. “Did you see that?” he complained. “She totally blew me off! What the fuck did I even do? I just wanted to say hi!”   
  
Droog shrugged, and then noticed the flush in the other boy’s already-dark cheeks. He put his head to the side. “Wait, is she the girl that -”   
  
“Shut up!” Jack suddenly hunched down, gripping the broomstick tightly and glancing frantically about, as if he were expecting a Bludger to fly at him out of nowhere. “Someone might hear you!”   
  
Droog looked toward Matilda and PM, the two of them sitting in the grass, their broomsticks lying forgotten by their sides. “Which one is it?”   
  
Jack spins away and breezes off. Droog urges his own broomstick forward and catches up. “None of your business,” Jack concludes, after Droog side-swipes him.   
  
“Why’s she mad at you?”   
  
“I don’t know!” He stopped and glared at Droog. “Mind your business, anyway - this is private stuff!”   
  
Droog backed off, but his expression made it very clear that he wasn’t thrilled about it. “Whatever you say, Jack. I’m just curious. Maybe I could help?”   
  
“If I want your help,” Jack snapped, “I’ll ask for it.”   
  
A hundred yards away or so, Matilda and PM were watching the conversation, quietly thus far. Matilda plucked a handful of grass from the pitch and sighed. “I suppose that was sort of rude of us,” she mused. PM spluttered.   
  
“Rude of  us ?” she managed. “How was that rude of us?”   
  
Ms Paint shrugged. “He was just trying to say hello, I guess. Maybe he wanted to apologize for the other day?”   
  
“No!” PM shook her head. “Don’t fall into that trap, Matilda. He’s a nasty case - you’ve seen the way he’s acted since day one! And you wouldn’t know this but his  family .” She made a disgusted noise. “Ugh, his family. Rotten apples, all of them; it’s a wonder he didn’t wind up in Slytherin like all the rest of them.”   
  
Ms Paint looked thoughtful. “But what if that’s the thing?” she wondered aloud. “What if that’s why he was acting the way he did - his family? He was so upset about being in Hufflepuff, but maybe now that he’s away from them -”   
  
“Oh, please.” PM waved a hand. “Don’t fall for it! He’s just being nice now because he’s going to want something from you later. He probably has a crush on your or something,” she mumbled, making a face. Matilda did likewise.   
  
“Ew, no!” She shook her head. “I don’t even want to think about that!”   
  
“Yeah,” PM agreed with an earnest nod. “Boys are gross; especially Jack Noir.” She looked back to Jack and Droog, or the space where they’d been, anyway, and then she gasped, and looked up. Matilda followed her eyeline, and then breathed in sharply.   
  
“Who is that?” she said faintly, squinting at the tiny figure whipping around through the air above the Quidditch pitch.    
  
“Probably Jack,” PM replied, unhappily. She looked to the crowd on the ground, and then shook her head. “No, he’s not even on his broomstick.” They both turned back to the figure in the air, and to Madam Hooch’s broomstick, climbing toward it. “I can’t even see what House they’re in.”   
  
“We should go over to see who it is,” Matilda said, climbing to her feet and brushing her robe off. PM followed suit, and the two of them trotted over to the gathered crowd of students, clustered in a circle below the drama unfolding in the sky.    
  
“Hi, Matilda!” She smiled as one of her other housemates - Renegade - shoved through the crowd and came to a stop next to her. “Glad to see you can follow the rules, at least.”   
  
“Yeah,” she said, nodding and watching as Hooch grabbed the nose of the mystery student’s broomstick and started guiding it back to the ground. “Who is that?”   
  
“Some Gryffindor,” he shrugged. “The real tall one, I forget his name.”   
  
“Inspector,” a girl in Gryffindor robes contributed. “It’s Pickle Inspector.” She wrung her hands together, nervous, and went on, “I don’t know what happened! One minute we were gliding along the ground, the next minute he just sort of stopped paying attention! He was looking at the castle, and the broom just started drifting …” She looked near enough to tears, and Matilda laid a hand on her shoulder.   
  
“He’s coming back down, though!” she encouraged. “They’re much lower than they were.”   
  
“But he still might fall,” the girl stammered. “I mean, I hope he doesn’t but -”   
  
“He won’t fall.” Ms Paint startled when someone - and when she looked she recognized him as the Ravenclaw boy with the cards - leaned his elbow on her shoulder, putting his other arm around the Gryffindor girl. “No worries, ladies,” he went on, with an accent that hinted of days spent in Australia. “Pickle’s just a distractible sort; he’ll pay attention now he’s with Hooch.”   
  
“You know each other?” Matilda asked, hesitant.   
  
“Oh, yeah! We go way back, me an’ Pickle; grew up in the outback together, while our parents tracked down dark wizards.” Ah, she thought, so her Australia assumption had been correct.   
  
“Were they Aurors?” PM asked, leaning over to get a better look at the boy.   
  
“Hm? Oh, no. They were private investigators.”   
  
In front of the impromptu gathering, Matilda heard Jack groan. “Jesus Christ.”   
  
“Did they ever catch any?” Another girl - Slytherin, this time, with short blonde hair and eyes that almost glittered with curiosity - asked. He looked stunned that she’d even thought of the question.   
  
“Of course not! They’re still there; dark wizards are wily creatures. It can take decades to find them!”   
  
“Or maybe,” Jack Noir said, turning around as Matilda’s mouth set in a hard, thin line, “your parents are just shit at their jobs.” He sneered. “I’m pretty sure Aurors don’t have that much trouble catchin’ people.”   
  
The Ravenclaw boy scoffed. “Well, of course you’d think that; all  you have to do to find a dark wizard is find one of your parents -”   
  
“Take that back!” Jack leapt, but Hearts Boxcars’ arm caught him across the chest. Matilda sighed, and exchanged a look with PM.   
  
“Come on,” Boxcars wheedled. “Can’t we just have one class where you don’t lose points for the house?”   
  
“I don’t give a shit about house points!” Jack snarled, clawing at the bigger boy’s already-frayed sleeves. “Now you take that back or I’m gonna make you!”   
  
Renegade glared. “Shut it, Jack: the professor’s coming back.”   
  
“You can always get him later,” Jack’s Slytherin friend - Droog - pointed out calmly, while Matilda’s mouth nearly fell open. “Revenge is best served cold, you know.”   
  
Jack stopped struggling, and after a few seconds Boxcars eased the short boy’s shoes to the grass. “Good point,” Jack concluded. He waved a finger at the Ravenclaw kid. “I’ll kick your ass later, Sleuth: depend on it.”   
  
“Bet you will,” Sleuth replied, straightening up and crossing his arms. “Bet you will.” He waited for Jack to flip him off, and then stage-whispered to the Gryffindor girl, “He’s not gonna kick my ass.”   
  
“I don’t know,” PM grumbled. “I wouldn’t tempt him.”   
  
“Unless you’re sure you can kick his ass back,” Renegade mumbled.   
  
Sleuth blanched, a fracture in the facade of bravado and confidence. “I could totally … kick his ass. No problem.” He chewed at his lip for a second while the surrounding students shot each other amused looks, but soon enough was back to what seemed to be his base state of operations, when the unfortunate Pickle Inspector touched down. “Hey, welcome back, PI!”   
  
“Give him some air,” Madam Hooch commanded, waving the curious students back. “Everyone move back!”   
  
“B-but I’m alright,” Pickle Inspector said, looking - at worst - deeply embarrassed by the entire thing. “I just stopped paying attention, is all.”   
  
“Everyone turn your broomsticks in!” Madam Hooch shouted, ignoring PI’s protests. “The lesson is over for today; we’ll try again next week. “Sit down, Inspector; I’ll take you to the hospital wing just as soon as I have all the brooms …”   
  
“I’m really fine,” PI said, timidly, but Madam Hooch shoved his shoulder roughly groundwards. Reluctantly, he sat cross-legged in the grass, flushed red face in his hands. “This is s-so embarrassing.”   
  
The Gryffindor girl broke from the ranks, shoving her broom at one of her classmates, and dropped into the grass next to him. “Don’t be upset,” Matilda overheard her saying, over the hustle of the rest of the first years grudgingly turning in their broomsticks. “I thought it was pretty cool how calm and brave you were!”   
  
“Y-you think so?” Matilda couldn’t help but smile when she saw him break into a grin, just before the press of students forced her away. “T-thanks.”   
  
-()-   
  
The fourth time Matilda spoke with Jack Noir came that night, late. She was in the common room, studying for the next day’s charms lesson, enjoying the unusual solitude she’d found there. Most of the students had cleared out around an hour ago, leaving her alone, nestled into one of the big armchairs. Though she was studying, she felt a little rebellious and thrilled; her parents had never allowed her to stay up quite so late at home. She half-expected them to burst into the common room at any moment, and chase her off to bed with a firm scolding.   
  
Instead, however, Jack Noir and the other boy - Hearts Boxcars - burst into the common room, arguing. Matilda scowled and hunched down behind her textbook in a determined attempt not to be seen.   
  
“You’re always so damn hungry, Jesus,” Jack was griping. “How the fuck haven’t you starved to death yet?”   
  
“We missed lunch!” Boxcars mumbled, defensive.   
  
“We didn’t miss dinner though,” Jack retorted. “I know sure as hell that  you didn’t; the house-elves were probably fucking flipping out, trying to keep food on the table.”   
  
Boxcars punched him in the shoulder. “I didn’t eat  that much.” Matilda hunched down further as they approached the door and passed her chair. No luck, though: Boxcars caught sight of her and smiled. “Hey, Matilda.”   
  
She sat up, because there was no point in hiding anymore. “Hello, Hearts,” she said, with a small smile, before she frowned and glared at the other boy. “Jack.” Jack blinked, and opened his mouth like he was going to say something before he, very uncharacteristically, closed it again. “What are you up to?”   
  
“Nothin’,” Jack said. Hearts rolled his eyes and elbowed him.   
  
“We’re goin’ to get somethin’ to eat from the kitchen,” Hearts explained. “I’m kinda hungry an’ Fin’s all out of candy.”   
  
“Ah.” Matilda nodded, and tried to convince herself that she was not hungry. Certainly not enough to be caught out of bed after dark. “Isn’t that against the rules?”   
  
Jack shrugged. “Kitchens are right next door - what’re the chances we’ll get caught?”   
  
“Hm,” was all she said, re-arranging herself on the couch.   
  
Boxcars looked from her to Jack, and then back to her. “Want to come?” he offered, and she looked up.   
  
“I - I don’t think it’s allowed …”   
  
Jack snorted. “S’only against the rules if you get caught. Come on; we’ll go fast.” He leaned back onto his heels and crossed his arms. “Unless you’re  scared -”   
  
Boxcars drove his elbow into Jack’s ribs. “Don’t be so rude,” he scolded, before smiling apologetically at Matilda. “You want us to bring you something instead?”   
  
She managed one last weak smile for Boxcars, before she hunkered back down, behind her book. “You go ahead; I’m going to stay here and keep reading.” She turned a page, although she couldn’t really remember what had been on the page she had turned away from. The boys gave her one last imploring look, before turning and shuffling from the common room.   
  
“You really gotta work on your manners,” Boxcars said, once they’d cleared the door and stepped into the cooler air of the hallway. “No wonder she hates you.”   
  
Jack stumbled. “She  hates me?” he stammered, when he’d got his feet back under him. “Where’d you hear that?”   
  
“You didn’t notice?” the big guy asked, ask they leaned around a corner, on the lookout for Filch. “She doesn’t wanna talk to you, she can’t even manage to be polite to you, an’ she’s sweet as pie to everyone else …”   
  
Jack frowned. “But that might not be because she hates me,” he protested, quick-stepping down the hall toward the kitchen door. “I thought maybe she just … I dunno … Maybe …” He trailed off, before looking to Boxcars, openly distressed. “You really think she hates me?”   
  
“Yeah, man.” He raised one beefy fist and knocked on the door. “Think about it; every time you’ve ever talked to her that I’ve seen, you’ve been complaining about her, or about something she likes.”   
  
“I tried to talk to her earlier today!” he whined.   
  
“What’d you say?”   
  
“I jus’ tried to say hi.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“An’ she walked away an’ told me to stop talking to her!” He froze. “Oh Christ, she does hate me.” The door swung open but Jack was too distracted to pay the house elf that answered any mind. “What do I  do ?”   
  
Boxcars greeted the elf and shrugged at Jack. “I dunno, just be nice to her, she’ll probably tolerate you eventually,” he said, trailing the elf into the kitchens and sitting down on one of the counters. The elf bustled off.   
  
Jack clambered up onto the counter. Boxcars noticed, with some confusion, that Jack looked rather more upset than his baseline. “Just  tolerate me?” He put his head in his hands. “Shit.”   
  
“What’s wrong with you?” Boxcars asked, accepting the cup of tea the elves pressed into his hands. “Hang on,” he said slowly, leaning down to Jack’s level. “You like her?”   
  
“Where’d you hear that?” the small boy snarled, snatching a biscuit off a tray and sending the house elf squeaking backwards in surprise. “Don’t tell anyone!”   
  
Boxcars blinked. “You like Matilda?  Oh man .”   
  
“I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”   
  
“Okay!” Boxcars raised his hands, placating. “Okay, it’s fine, Jack. I won’t tell anyone. What a dilemma, though,” he reflected, taking a bite out of a sandwich.   
  
“She hates me,” Jack groaned, burying his face in his hands for a split second, before pulling off his eye patch and spiking it, disgusted, to the ground. “Fuck, I already blew it.”   
  
“Well, I wouldn’t be so, uh, hasty,” Boxcars said, wracking his brains for the plots of all the romance novels he’d read recently. “I mean, you’ve only known her since Sunday, right? You can’t have  totally decimated your chances already; we got seven more years here.” He took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. “What d’you like about her?”   
  
“She’s pretty.”   
  
He nodded. “Okay. And?”   
  
“...”   
  
“There’s gotta be somethin’ else.”   
  
“She’s … nice? I dunno! I like her!” Jack stuffed another biscuit into his mouth. “I dunno why I like her!” he concluded, spraying Boxcars with crumbs. “I jus’ do!”   
  
“Okay,” Boxcars sighed. So that ruled out a romantic poem, he supposed. “But you definitely do?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Like her like you like Snowman?” Boxcars asked cautiously. He usually avoided bringing Snowman up, but in this case, he thought, it was probably important to be clear.   
  
“No!” He shook his head. “She’s nicer than that fucking bitch’ll ever be.” He frowned. “I guess Snowman’s prettier but -”   
  
“But you like Matilda, s’the important part,” Boxcars cut in, before Jack could examine those feelings toward Snowman any more. Boxcars considered himself a romantic, even at eleven, but Jack’s feelings toward Snowman were … well, Hearts had read about him, in some of his seedier novels, but he’d never experienced them first-hand. And, to be honest, the thought of Jack having them sort of worried him. “So you gotta try to convince her you’re not a jerk,” he explained.   
  
Jack bit into another biscuit. “How?” he asked, legs swinging, expression glum.   
  
“Well,” the tall boy reflected. “I think I might have a couple ideas.”   
  
-()-   
  
It hadn’t been much longer after the boys had left that any excitement or thrill of rebellion had worn off the late-night studying, for Matilda, and left her drowsy and bored on the couch. Had she been at home, her parents would have roused her, and herded her upstairs to bed, but in Hogwarts there wasn’t anyone to do such a thing. And so she’d fallen asleep, comfortably curled up in the couch cushions, her arm clenched around her book.   
  
She didn’t stir when the door clunked open, and Hearts and Jack crept in. They paused, just inside the door, and then exchanged a look. She didn’t see Hearts’ encouraging gestures, or Jack’s cautious footfalls as he sidled closer to the couch. It was only when he sat down, about a foot away from her shoes, that she blinked her eyes open, and looked around.   
  
She sat up abruptly when she caught sight of him, and set about re-arranging her clothing into a presentable fashion. “What do you want?” she snapped.   
  
“Er.” He looked around, but Hearts had already snuck back to bed, leaving Jack stranded. “Um, you were asleep.”   
  
“I was just resting my eyes.” She gathered her book to her chest and flipped her hair out of her eyes.   
  
“Oh.” He blanched, and looked to his feet. “I jus’ thought maybe you’d want to go back to bed or somethin’ instead of -”   
  
“I’ll go back to bed when I please, thank you,” she said, standing up, ramrod-straight, defensive. “Which is right now.”   
  
“Okay.” He stood up too. “I just … I didn’t want you to … Never mind.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and averted his eye, looking anywhere but at her. “Goodnight.”   
  
“Goodbye, Jack Noir,” she said coldly, turning to go.   
  
“Hang on,” he said suddenly, darting around to stand in front of her. Quickly - more quickly than she could watch - he took something out of his pocket, pressed it into her hand, and said something like: “Iwantedyoutohavethishaveagoodnight,” before nearly running from the common room and into the boys’ dormitory. She stood there, stock-still and surprised, for a good minute after he left, blinking.   
  
“What …” she mumbled, before she turned her eyes from the door he’d bolted through to the paper in her hand. No, not paper, she thought, napkins. Napkins, wrapped around something. Puzzled, she set her book down on the table and sat once again, laying the napkin bundle carefully in the center of the table.   
  
It was, she realized with some delight, a late-night snack pack. A half sandwich and a biscuit, mostly squashed, but nevertheless painstakingly wrapped up. And while she was excited about the food - her stomach hadn’t stopped rumbling since the other two had left - she was too puzzled by the entire presentation to be outwardly happy about it. Instead she stayed put, thoughtful, as she nibbled at the sandwich and the biscuit, and stared at the one other thing that had been in the bundle. It was another napkin, and at first she thought it was simply something to wipe her mouth with.   
  
She doubted it, though. Rarely do mouth-wiping napkins have the word ‘sorry’ penned carefully onto them, in what appeared to be mustard.


	6. Chapter 6

Your name is HEARTS BOXCARS, and you are beginning to wonder if it is truly possible to actually become bored of WIZARD SCHOOL. Part of you wants to believe it is not - there is simply TOO MUCH COOL STUFF - but you are disappointed to find that every day, things get a little less amazing, and a little more commonplace. Your first week, you were stunned by MOVING STAIRCASES, now, a month into term, you just nod like it’s obvious when Jack explains TIME-TURNERS to you, over sandwiches.   
  
“They sound useful,” is the most interest you can muster for a real-life time machine.   
  
Jack shrugs, his mouth full of lunch. “Guess so.”   
  
You tell yourself that you are not losing enthusiasm because everything is becoming commonplace. It’s because of all the homework, you assure yourself. You aren’t really sure what you thought the homework situation might be when you got to Hogwarts, but you are positive you never expected there to be this  much of it. It is practically overflowing out of your bookbag, and your weekends are spent either holed up in the common room, or hunched over a table in the library with Jack, Droog and Clubs.   
  
You are grateful, though, that at least you have the three of them; without their company, not only would you be overwhelmed with schoolwork, you might also be bored stiff. Say what you will about Jack Noir, you consider - at least the kid knows how to keep things interesting. You consider mentioning your creeping restlessness to him, but before you even figure out how to bring it up, Jack has an answer, one cool October Saturday, just after lunchtime.   
  
“We should do something,” he declares, startling you and the other two. With his transfiguration book open and covering his face, you all just assumed he’d gone to sleep. Instead, he sits up, the book sliding down to rest on his stomach. “I’m sick of these weekends of doin’ jack shit.”   
  
Clubs frowns. “But we’re always busy on the weekends - we have all this studying to do!”   
  
Jack waves a hand. “Studying’s not interesting. I’m talkin’ something … something cool, something exciting. You, know, like … like goin’ to Hogsmeade or explorin’ some unusued corridors or something -”   
  
“Forbidden.” Droog looks up from his own book, dryly amused. “I wondered how long you’d last.”   
  
“Fuck you!” Jack snaps. “The  interestin’ things aren’t allowed! An’ the things that are allowed aren’t interesting!”   
  
“We could go check out some brooms and fly around the Quidditch pitch tomorrow during open hours!” Clubs suggests, and you nod. You’re not great at flying, but as far as you’re concerned, it beats studying. Besides, there are worse ways to waste a few hours than tossing a Quaffle back and forth.   
  
“I’d rather not,” Droog mumbles. This doesn’t surprise you: Droog is objectively horrible at flying. On your second flying lesson, he fell from a height of approximately four feet, and had to be taken to the hospital wing for a broken arm. Since then, he’s always sullenly sat on the bleachers, watching from behind a textbook. “But if the alternatives involved breaking school regulations …”   
  
Jack shoves him, hard, and nearly knocks him down into the grass. Droog glares and manages to salvage himself, smoothing out the sleeves of his robe. “You’re such a stick in the mud, Droog. Come on, if you’re not breaking a rule or two, you’re not doing anythin’ worth doing, right?”   
  
You frown. “I dunno, Jack …”   
  
“Shut up, Boxcars.” He crosses his legs and rocks back and forth a little as he wheedles the three of you. “Seriously, it’ll be fun. It’ll be like, fuck, like an adventure or something! We might find somethin’ cool.”   
  
“Like what?” Droog asks, unimpressed. “Dust? Old books? Abandoned classrooms?”   
  
“I dunno!” Jack throws his hands up. “Money or some shit! You never know. Deuce wants to do it, right, Deuce?”   
  
“I do?” The little guy looks to you, puzzled. “Did I agree to this an’ just not remember?”   
  
You shake your head ‘no,’ even as Jack tries to convince him otherwise. Blessedly - for Deuce’s sanity more than anything - Droog cuts in. “Alright, Jack, I’ll play: what, exactly, are you considering?”   
  
“Oh, so  now you’re in?”   
  
Droog shrugs, expression carefully blank. “Contingent on what you’re suggesting, I suppose. Minor rule-breaking, perhaps, I could abide, but anything more than that …”   
  
Jack waves his hand, dismissive. “Nah, it’s just somethin’ kinda interestin’, nothing  bad .” You and Droog - and Deuce, for that matter - fix Jack with expectant looks. Jack sits back, leaning on his elbows. “I was just considerin’ the possibilities of going for a little expedition into the Forbidden Forest, is all.”   
  
Droog puts his face in his hand. You sigh, and turn your attention back to your book. Deuce cocks his head. “But, Jack … that’s forbidden. S’got it in the name and everything.”   
  
“S’what makes it interesting, isn’t it!” Jack protests. “ Why’s it forbidden? There’s gotta be a reason, am I right? An’ it’s more interestin’ if we go find out!”   
  
“Or we could ask a professor,” you point out, because you are not in agreement with Jack at all on this one.   
  
Droog nods. “Or you could pick up a book. In  Hogwarts: A History , it clearly states that the wooded grounds surrounding the castle, colloquially known as the Forbidden Forest, are rife with all manner of magical creatures, which have varying degrees of insatiable bloodlust.”   
  
Jack sticks his tongue out. “‘In  Hogwarts: A History ’, you can suck my dick, Droog.” He drops his Droog impression, much to everyone’s relief. “That’s just stories!” He waves a hand to the big, dark mass of trees just beyond the ridge. “We’re fucking kids, right? Who’d be cool with a giant forest of angry monsters by a school full of kids? It’s just bullshit they try to feed us so we stay on the lawn, is all.”   
  
Clubs looks to you, and then back to Jack, hesitant. “I - I dunno, Jack. Remember the other night when we were at astronomy, and we kept hearing all those noises coming from the forest? That sounded pretty scary!”   
  
“That sounded,” Jack says, authoritative, “like two upperclassmen fucking in the owlery.”   
  
“It did not!” you deny, although you have no idea what two upperclassmen fucking in the owlery might sound like. But it’s alright, because you’re pretty sure Jack doesn’t really know either. “Come on, Jack, it’s called the Forbidden Forest! Why would it be called that if it wasn’t … you know …” You shrug.   
  
Droog looks back to his book. “I veto the idea on the basis that it’s completely idiotic.”   
  
“Me too,” you agree, quickly.   
  
“This ain’t a goddamn democracy!” Jack’s pleas, though, fall on deaf ears: you and the other two have tuned him out, in favor of returning to your studying. He rails on about the forest for a while, before he apparently accepts that not a single one of you is even a little tempted to explore its depths. Then he gathers up his books, pegs you in the head with a crumbled-up piece of discarded homework, and storms off, hands in his pockets.   
  
Deuce watches him go, concerned. “You think maybe we should follow him? I mean, I still don’t wanna go into the forest, but he seemed sort of upset …”   
  
“He’ll get over it,” you and Droog say in tandem.   
  
“You think?”   
  
“Deuce,” Droog sighs, “Jack gets really, really terrible ideas a lot. And I think he knows, on some level, that they’re really terrible, so he’ll get over it. Trust me.”   
  
You nod along, and pat the little guy on the shoulder. Deuce looks doubtful for a moment, but he does relax, and the three of you spend the rest of the afternoon studying together, mostly in companionable silence.    
  
Before dinner, you split off to your respective Houses, to return your books and change out of your robes. Jack’s not in the common room, you notice, or your room, although his robe is there, cast carelessly onto the bed. You don’t think much of it, assuming he must be at dinner already, and you hang your robe up and head out, joining up with Matilda Paint and Peregrine Mendicant on the way.   
  
“Have you seen Jack recently?” you ask them, just in case.   
  
PM makes a face, but Matilda nods. “Mid-afternoon, he came through the common room. He looked upset.”   
  
Your frown. “Upset?”   
  
She waves a hand. “I mean, you know. Angry. Like usual.”   
  
“Oh.” You nod. “That’s all right, then.” You turn the conversation to school, and what their plans are for tomorrow: there’s a club meeting for herbology that they’re planning on attending. Something about pumpkins. They explain it to you while you sit down for dinner. You look around for Jack before tucking in to your meal, and you note with some concern that he’s not there, either.   
  
Matilda notices. “He’ll probably just come later,” she says, breaking her explanation of quantum pumpkin mechanics. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he’s fine.” PM rolls her eyes, but then nods in agreement when you look worried. “I mean, you’re his friend,” Paint goes on, “you ought to know this is just … one of his things, I think.”   
  
“Yeah,” you sigh, stuffing a bell pepper into your mouth. “Guess so.”   
  
You listen to the girls all through dinner, interspersing questions when you feel like you’re on firmer footing. Eventually, they decide to go back to their homework, since most of their day tomorrow will be consumed by pumpkins. You wait at the table, picking at food, until the Great Hall is mostly cleared out; at some point, the Hufflepuff table is empty enough that Droog and Clubs come over to join you.   
  
“Where’s Jack?” Droog asks. You shrug.   
  
“I dunno; his robe was on his bed, and Matilda said she saw him around the time he left us, but I don’t know where he went.” Your forehead creases a little as you frown. “You reckon we oughta be worried or something?”   
  
Droog frowns too, although he looks more pensive than worried. “I don’t know … Jack … Jack does this kind of thing. I don’t think we should be  worried , but -” A bookbag slams onto the table next to him, catapaulting a few plates, and Droog jumps, before snarling at the newcomer and hastily trying to dab all the mint jelly off his shirt.   
  
“You worryin’ about me?” Jack beams. “Fuckin’ wusses.”   
  
“Where have you been?” you ask, only mildly accusatory. “No one’s seen you.”   
  
“In the library!” You and Deuce exchange a shocked look. Jack? The library? Alone?   
  
Droog’s eyes narrow. “What are you up to?”   
  
“Stuff,” Jack says, digging some papers out of his bag and fanning them out on the table. You and Deuce crane your necks to see. “Stuff that’s gonna convince you that my idea was a fucking great idea.”   
  
“Oh, God,” Droog mutters. “Here we go.”   
  
Jack spreads a rolled-up piece of parchment out, and narrowly avoids upsetting your goblet of pumpkin juice. He’s unphased, though, and jabs one dark finger at a spot on the map, marked with a large ‘X’. “There’s cash there.”   
  
“Okay,” Droog says, taking a bite of a macaroon and pointing to the map. “There are several problems with this.  First of all, you drew this map, don’t act like you didn’t. Second of all, I’m fairly certain that if there was a large stash of money in the Forbidden Forest, far more qualified wizards would already have claimed it. And third, there is  still the question of homicidal monsters.” He pops the rest of the macaroon into his mouth. “I’m not going, and you’re stupid for thinking about it.”   
  
Jack thumps the table and upsets your goblet. The juice spills across the map, even as you scramble to keep it from doing so. “Sorry Jack,” you say, snatching your cup and trying in vain to mop the juice from the map before it’s ruined.   
  
“It’s a fake map anyway,” Droog mutters.   
  
“Listen, if you assholes wanna sit around and study all the fucking time, fine, but I call bullshit! What the fuck is school for, right? I mean, shit, we’re away from our parents; might as well make the most of it!” Jack’s shoulders heave up and down as he pants, brandishing his soggy map, no longer marked with clear lines, but instead covered in black and orange smudges. “An’ I’m goin’ into the goddamn forest with or without you assholes, because I’m sick of all this trumped-up schoolwork horse shit.”   
  
“You can’t go alone,” you point out, while Deuce nods fervently from his place next to you. “That’s even stupider than going in at all.”   
  
“Well I don’t have a lot of other options!” He snatches a roll off the table and chomps into it, spraying food over the three of you as he continues to growl obscenities.   
  
“You could just not go,” Droog suggests. “Come on, Jack, why don’t we just explore a forbidden corridor or steal a book from the restricted section or something?” You nod, like those options are way more reasonable. Which, you guess, they are, in context.   
  
“I could help you blow up a classroom!” Deuce suggests.   
  
Jack pulls a chicken thigh from the table and continues eating, still not sitting down. “Fuck you guys, I do what I want, and I  want to go into the damn forest.” He swallows. “I’m leaving at ten, and if you assholes want to come you’ll meet me under the front stairs then.” He turns on his heel and storms off, his map dripping as he goes.   
  
You and Droog exchange pensive looks while you continue eating. Beside you, Deuce makes happy ‘hmmm’ noises, his legs swinging on the bench. “I think the food tastes better at the Hufflepuff table,” he decides, after a while.   
  
Droog shrugs. “I don’t think we can let him go into the forest alone,” he sighs, stirring his spoon around in his now-melted bowl of ice cream. “I mean, it’s certain death either way, but it’s way more certain death if he goes alone.” His eyes narrow. “I thought you Hufflepuffs were supposed to be stalwart and loyal and sensible.”   
  
You shrug. “I guess that’s why I’m gonna go with him.”   
  
“You’ve got the stalwart and loyal part down, I suppose,” Droog grumbles. “Maybe not sensible.”   
  
You spread your hands. “Not like I have options if I want to do the other two.”   
  
“Good point.” He rests his chin in his hands and looks at Deuce. “I dunno, Deuce, what do you want to do?”   
  
“I don’t want Jack to die!” He drums his fingers on the table. “I think I’m gonna go. An’ hey, it actually could be fun! I guess it is pretty boring just sitting around the castle here.” He looks to Droog. “What about you, Diamonds? You gonna go or are you just gonna wait for us to come back?”   
  
Droog sits back and crosses his arms, glaring at the table. “This is really stupid.”   
  
You nod. “I know.”   
  
“But,” he decides, taking a swig of water, “I guess someone’s gotta go along to make sure you all don’t get eaten.”   
  
“Being terribly murdered is much better with company,” you agree. Deuce laughs, and you’re glad, because you think that was pretty funny. Droog doesn’t laugh, though; he just scowls, and flings a spoonful of ice cream at you.


End file.
